The wall is freckled. It has been for weeks–since I took over the space. This weekend, for probably the first time unprompted by another human being, it occurred to me that it is acceptable for things to take time; to be imperfect.
As patient as I am with others, I have little of the virtue for myself, or my process. Traditionally, my first inclination when moving into a new place or position in life, is to “perfect” it; remove or hide any blemishes. I don’t know what I want to do with these dotted walls, save for the fact that where my feet are should be a headboard, and that headboard will be a wall of retired pallets. But the right pallets need to be scavenged; the paint color needs to wind me down.
Yet, today I almost spent three times more money than I wanted on pallets that failed to thrill me. Actually, they didn’t even satisfy me. My first thought was a clear nope, and I still loaded them on a flatbed cart and approached a checkout line before pretending I needed something else and leaving the cart parked in a closed lane as I looped down and around an aisle before marching out the door equal parts pleased with myself for not purchasing something I didn’t want, yet also disappointed that I couldn’t bring myself to just say, “No, thank you. I don’t want these.”
I wanted a more polished look so badly, and I wanted it “finished” now so badly that I forgot for a moment that this process should be fun–that decorating and design is one of my favorite things to do. All because I wanted to have something that would look to others like I had my shit more together.
Life doesn’t always have to feel 100 percent right all the time. It doesn’t have to be pretty to be satisfyingly interesting and exciting. Grateful for these multiplying moments of presence.